RIVERS AND WILLOWS
by Westel
Summary: But the figures didn't answer. They began to fade, and with them went the song, and the smell of the Brandywine, and Frodo found himself at last standing utterly alone.  Rated K plus for some disturbing scenes.
1. Chapter 1

Rivers and Willows – Part One

[Third Tale in the BFS series

Westel

"Frodo Baggins, just look at you! If it weren't for your eyes I'd have mistaken you for a mushroom!"

The pretty, dark-haired matron stood with her arms akimbo, glaring with feigned anger at the little boy who had pulled himself up smartly, arms crossed.

"Mum, you know mushrooms don't walk!" he said, his chin quivering in an effort not to grin.

"Well, this one obviously does!" Primula answered, her face lighting with a smile, and knelt before the dirty child. His blue eyes danced with merriment as he put two grubby hands on her shoulders.

"Do I have to take a bath now? We were just startin' to have fun!" Frodo begged, as his mother began to help him off with his shirt. A copper tub sat in the corner of the room, steam rising from the fragrant water; fresh towels lay folded on a chair nearby, along with a clean set of clothes.

"Start-_ing_," she corrected him. "I'm sorry, dear, but your father and I want a little time together alone tonight. Goodness knows it's hard to find any privacy around here," she said, chuckling as she reached to undo the buttons of Frodo's braces.

"Mum!" he complained, his eyes widening. "I'm big enough to want privacy, too!" He clutched at the waistband of his trousers, a rose tint spreading across his chubby cheeks.

Primula leaned back on her heels, seeing her son in a new light. "Such a change all of a sudden! You're only a little hobbit-boy, after all," she teased, her eyes twinkling.

"I'll be twelve next month," the child responded, still holding tightly to his breeches.

His mother looked at him again, her smile a thoughtful one now. "So you are," she agreed. "Only another year and you'll be in your teens. It doesn't seem all that long ago when I was your age, wanting to grow up in such a great hurry." Her eyes grew distant.

"So can I take baths by myself from now on?" Frodo asked, bringing his mother back to the present.

"_May_ I," she corrected, patiently. Really, she would have to take her young son in hand very soon, what with the words and phrases he was picking up in the smial of Buckland. "Very well," she sighed, rising from the floor and tousling Frodo's hair. "First a good soak to loosen the layers," she instructed him, "wash your hair next, then scrub everywhere before you get out. No shirking, you understand."

"All right, Mother," Frodo answered, 'obedient son' etched on his face. Primula went out of the room, holding the door ajar momentarily. "Prepare for full inspection when you're done, my young hobbit! Especially behind the ears and under the fingernails!"

Frodo grinned. He waited for her to close the door, then scrambled out of his clothes and crawled into the tub. He sighed as he lowered his body into the delicious hot water, toying with the soapy bubbles with his toes and fingers and making rhythmic splashes with the bathing tune as he sang:

_Oh! water hot upon my toes,_

_It's in my ears and up my nose!._

_All dirt and grime are washed away_

_Until I start another day._

_Oh! water hot..._

Frodo's song was interrupted by a tap at the door. "It's just your old dad, Frodo. Is that the sound of a proper washing I'm hearing in there?"

"Yes, Sir," Frodo answered, somewhat guiltily. He hurriedly picked up a wash cloth and began applying it vigorously to his sturdy little body. "I am," he said, with more conviction.

"Very well, then," came the answer from behind the door. "Don't take too long. Your mother and I want to be leaving soon."

"I won't," the boy assured his father, and scrubbed away, humming to himself, not uncommon for a happy hobbit. Going to Cousin Aster's burrow was always fun. There would be apples and popcorn for snacks, and a good bedtime story, something he always enjoyed, especially when it was about elves or wizards. He thought he had seen a wizard once at a distance, talking with cousin Bilbo, but wasn't sure. He hoped someday he would get to meet a real, live wizard—after all, he planned on being one when he grew up.

His mother and father didn't leave Frodo often, but they did occasionally contrive a 'Night Out', a time for them to be with each other without interruption. Their little boy knew instinctively that this was a good thing; their affection for each other was strong and spilled over onto their child like spring water. He had grown sturdy in body and spirit under their loving care, and though he had a tendency to precociousness, he never strayed too far thanks to their guidance—and the occasional application of a hand to the backside whenever necessary.

The youngster finished only when the water began to cool, drying off quickly and putting on the clean clothes his mother had laid out for him. He buttoned his braces and left the room whistling, looking forward to the evening's delights.

--

"Dad?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

"Do mums ever stop kissing their little boys?"

Drogo looked down at his child, whose hand was clasped firmly in his own, and smiled knowingly. "Hmm. I'm afraid they don't."

Frodo's eyes widened as he scurried along beside his father's longer steps. "Not ever? Not even when they're all grown?"

"Are you in such a hurry to grow up?" Drogo asked, giving his boy's hand a little shake.

"Aye, that I am," answered the child.

Drogo winced, remembering the conversation he'd had earlier that day with his wife. "Say, 'Yes, I am', Frodo," he corrected the lad.

"Why?" the boy enquired, guilelessly. "All my friends talk that way, " he added.

_Because everyone—Brandybucks, Tooks, distant relatives, household help and long-tenured wayfarers— mix and mingle here like so many rabbits_, Baggins thought, frowning. _Prim's right. I need to be thinking about ending our holiday and going back home, and soon. _

"I'm sorry," Frodo said quietly, looking down at his hurrying feet, mistaking his father's frown for displeasure with him.

"Oh, it's all right," Drogo reassured the boy, picking him up and tossing him in the air, evincing a burst of giggles from the dark-haired child. He held the boy close, momentarily eye-to-eye with his son. Their eyes matched: in colour and size, and in eloquence. For a moment, when their eyes locked, their expressions were identical.

"No gloomy thoughts, now," Drogo said, picking his child up again and giving him a little shake, causing the boy's feet to dangle like a doll's. "Let's you and I take a little walk tomorrow and we'll talk all about growing up, shall we?"

"Oh, I'd like that!" Frodo exclaimed, throwing his arms and legs around his father, hugging him fiercely.

Drogo laughed, shifted the boy onto his shoulders, and carried him all the way to Cousin Aster's burrow. Frodo, at least for the moment, had forgotten entirely that he was 'too old' for such things.

--

Frodo woke suddenly, his heart racing. There were voices outside the bedroom door, whispering urgently. Curious, he crawled from the bed, careful not to disturb the other two hobbit children who slept there, and brought his eye to the keyhole.

He couldn't see much; the other room was lit only by a few dying embers in the fireplace, but Cousin Aster was there—he recognized her voice—and at least two others whom he couldn't readily identify. _Why are they up so late?_ he wondered. Turning his head and having to balance his weight on his tiptoes, he put his ear to the keyhole instead. What he heard next would change his life forever.

"Saw 'em both floatin' in the water. Stark they were, too. No life left in 'em," said one of the unidentified hobbits. "The current's swift – they're still workin' t'get 'em out of the deep water."

Cousin Aster was crying. Frodo could tell she was trying to be quiet for the sake of the children in the room with him, but her sobs were deep and heart-broken, nonetheless. The young hobbit began to feel something he had never before known creep coldly into his heart—fear. He pressed harder against the door, listening intently.

"Poor darlings. Poor, lovely darlings. I can't believe they've left us. I just can't," Aster wailed.

"Who's left?" Frodo mouthed, his limbs slowly growing cold.

"Shush, now," said the other unknown hobbit, a female with a high, scratchy voice—someone much older. "This won't help them, dear, they're gone and no mistake. It won't help you, neither, just findin' out you're expecting again. You hush, now."

"But Frodo," Aster said haltingly, sniffling. "Who will look out after him?"

_Me?_ Frodo wondered, his eyes widening. _What do they mean?_

"He can stay here," rasped the other female. "In this warren there'll be plenty to look after him, more than he'll want, I expect."

"But he's an only child, Mother Grubb! And so young! We can't just..."

"Now, now," comforted the newly identified elder. "I don't mean to sound cold, Aster. Goodness knows the lad will be tended to, and well enough."

Frodo's head came away from the door as he settled back on his heels. His heart was pounding so hard in his chest he could feel it thumping against his ribs. Unfettered, the fear within his breast had sprung, full-fledged, into terror.

"Who will tell the boy?" he heard clearly through the door.

For this voice was not whispered, and it was Mellun, Cousin Aster's husband. Frodo heard footsteps approaching. He looked frantically around the room before his eyes lighted upon the window, unlatched and ajar for ventilation. He ran back to the bed and grabbed his clothes hung upon the bedpost...

When the adult hobbits entered the room, there was one less hobbit in the bed, and the window was swinging.

Frodo Baggins was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Rivers and Willows, Part Two

[Third Tale in the BFS Series

Westel

The child ran aimlessly for a few seconds, his frantic mind trying to wrap itself around the words he had heard spoken behind the door. 'Found in the water', they had said. That could only be the Brandywine. The little Baggins family had often gone boating there when they visited Brandy Hall, and Frodo had heard his parents talking about a moonlight outing.

He made for the wooden dock where he had spent many a happy hour playing in the shade while his mother and father looked on, and where they often had embarked in the small boat his father had made himself. 'Going on adventures', his mother had teased. As the boy neared the riverside, he heard voices and saw lantern-light under the trees. Several hobbits stood chest-deep in the river, casting nets and ropes with hooks on the ends into the deeper water. Though the moon shone, so intent were the workers and onlookers that no one noticed the child. Frodo got as near the edge of the water as he dared, clutching his bundle of clothes to himself. He peered out over the river, shading his eyes from the lamp-light. He could just make out something bobbing on the surface, caught in a rough back-current that flung itself up on a tree fallen from the other side. Two bundles of clothes – much like his own rumpled burden – seemed to be caught there. Closer to him, however, was a small piece of cloth, smoky crimson in the moonlit light. The current had brought it within a few feet of where the boy stood.

He recognized it, of course, straight away.

It was the scarf his dad had helped him pick out for his mother on his eleventh birthday.

Only months—only lifetimes ago.

With a cry, Frodo flung aside his clothes and rushed headlong into the river. His nightshirt clinging to his legs, he scrambled and plunged, inadvertently pushing the scarf further out as he tried to reach it. Struggling, he felt the current take him, and his head went under. His foot hit a large stone; he bent his knees and pushed off as hard as he could, breaking the surface again. This last effort brought him close to the bundles against the downed tree.

Too close...

Frodo saw the limp form of his mother, face-down in the water, bumping woodenly against the tree. Beside her was the boy's father, his cold face staring at nothing, the blue eyes glazed over. Frodo found himself looking into those eyes, searching for some sign, some glimpse of the life he had seen there such a short time ago...

There was nothing.

Young Baggins screamed, but the water covered his head once again, and the river filled his lungs...

--

Frodo felt the sensation of being carried—at a run. There was a roaring in his ears and breathing was hard—he coughed harshly and brought up water, but could not speak to his bearer. In and out of consciousness he drifted, until the rough motion finally ceased and he found himself on a bed. Someone was lifting him, pulling at the mud-stained nightshirt.

The boy moaned in protest and clutched at the damp garment. But his grip was too weak, the shirt was soon replaced by a clean, dry one, and he felt warm covers being drawn up over his shivering body.

He felt hot and cold by turns, but the shivering stayed with him as the night slowly passed. Frodo was aware that things were going on around him, but he was unable to do anything except open his mouth when water was brought to his lips, and turn toward the cool hand he felt upon his brow from time to time. He was unaware of his calling for his parents; there was only a vague sense that something was wrong, that try as he might, he could not find what he was looking for in his restless dreams.

Towards morning, yet too early for the birds to leave their nests, he wakened, jerking from slumber and calling frantically for his mother, his father. Mother Grubb tried to soothe him, but he struggled against her, his hoarse cries echoing through the rooms. She held on, showing remarkable strength for one so old.

"Shush, lad," she said, gripping his upper arms. "That's enough," she said primly, trying to reach a more sensible part of the boy's troubled heart. "You've seen more than a child your age should, that's certain. But lad, you've seen it, and there's nothing for it. Stop your cryin' now," she urged.

She talked to him for quite awhile, soothing and admonishing him by turns, until he settled down and finally raised his eyes to hers. "I couldn't reach the scarf," he whispered, his throat raw.

"I know, lad. I know," Mother Grubb answered, stroking his cheek with her withered hand.

"I dreamed I was looking for something," Frodo said, his eyes confused. "I saw something in the water, but..." His brow furrowed. "That wasn't the dream. That wasn't..."

His sharp intake of breath startled Mother Grubb and the other hobbits in the room. Before they could react, Frodo had jumped from the bed and darted out the door.

"Here! Come back, Frodo!" But the boy never stopped, never wavered. He knew where his parents were.

--

Aster sat next to Prim, who lay stretched out on a makeshift table in the room that had once been her sitting room. Dro was in the bedroom beyond, covered with a sheet until he could be made ready for burial. Aster held her friend's hand in her own; though cold, the fingernails blue, the skin was still soft and dimpled over the knuckles. _Such loving hands_, Aster thought, _such a wonderful wife and mother_. She brought Prim's lifeless hand to her cheek, her tears bathing the motionless fingers, and held it there a moment before continuing her task of washing the body.

Somewhere in the distance a door slammed; footsteps clattering down the hall. Aster heard the door open, banging against the wall, and turned to see who it was.

It was Frodo, breathing hard; the colour drained from his face as he stood there. Aster stood and reached a hand toward him, but he avoided her and was at his mother's side in an instant.

"Frodo, dear, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see..."

"I have to," Frodo said quietly, looking much older than his years as he stood there beside his dead mother. He stared long at Primula, hardly blinking, before raising his eyes to Aster's—their blue orbs dry, their expression blank.

"Father?" he asked, in a voice devoid of feeling.

Involuntarily, Aster's eyes darted to the bedroom door. Without a word, Frodo turned, opened the door, and entered, closing the door behind him.

Aster waited, her heart beating in her throat, for what seemed a very long time. She waited in silence, tears for the orphan spilling down her cheeks, one hand on her abdomen where her unborn child lay. She waited, all the while listening for a wail, a call, a cry of grief. But when she at last did hear something, it was the unmistakable noise of a bureau being opened, a few more minutes of unidentifiable activity, and then the bedroom door unclosed. Frodo stood there, fully dressed, his nightshirt lying discarded on the floor behind him. Aster could see beyond the child the still form of his father; the sheet had been moved and Dro's face was uncovered.

Aster looked back at Frodo, who stood utterly still in the doorway. "Frodo?" she whispered, and took a step toward him. Frodo backed up hard against the door frame, shaking his head slowly. "No," he said, his jaw tightening. "No," he said again, his fingers clenching.

"Frodo, dear, let me take you back to my burrow. It's been a wearisome night, and…"

He met her sympathetic gaze with fire in his own. "NO!" he yelled, and ran from the apartments, slamming the door behind him. Aster stood transfixed for some seconds, listening to the child's running footsteps receding down one the many passages of the great Hall.

--

Frodo fled out of the first exit he could and, finding himself in the kitchen garden, he chose a familiar bricked pathway and scurried away, his course lit by moonlight. Long minutes passed while he walked: minutes which, had they eyes, would have seen a transformation taking place. For as the boy distanced himself from the smial, his mind began to distance itself from the knowledge of his parents' deaths. Tears dried on his cheeks, and the look of intense pain began to slowly drain away. His features cleared, replaced by a blankness which might have been confused with peacefulness. The hurried steps slowed by degrees, and developed into a slower, more languid pace.

Though his thoughts were no longer nightmarish, having receded into a closed corner of his awareness, his heart was still troubled. Young Baggins was searching for something, but who or what it was loomed just beyond his reach. He began to wander, letting his feet take him where they would, and the boy soon found himself deep in the country-side, glow-flies all about, a soft breeze stirring the dark canopy of scattered trees around him.

Frodo was not afraid of walking in the dark. Rather he relished it, having been taken on many such trips by his parents, who enjoyed such things. Granted, Drogo enjoyed sitting by the fire and reading a good book as much as anything, but he would have given the world to his Primula if she'd asked him for it, so he had first accepted, then relished their evenings out while everyone else slept. After Frodo was born, they took him with them without a second thought.

This was the first time the child had been out on his own, however, and he felt the exhilaration of adventure in his young heart. He strayed, following the flight of first one, then another glow-fly, until he was far away from the path. There was magic in the night, a palpable essence that flowed like slow-moving water around him—through him. He felt light as air and moved without effort, his arms rising to embrace otherworldly texture and sensation, his outstretched fingers to caress it. Slowly the night wore on, and the lad wandered far into the enchanted darkness, entranced by its loveliness and—if he but knew it—its balm of forgetfulness.

--

He was awake. Most certainly that, as he felt the roots of a great tree under his back, heard the birds' morning-song, and saw two booted feet just in front of his nose.

A tall, grey-clad figure stood before him, leaning on a gnarled staff of oak. His hat was pushed back on his grey head and he beamed at the child from under thick, bushy eyebrows.

"Ah! You are awake, Master Baggins," the stranger said. "Have you any idea of the ruckus you've caused in all of Buckland?"

Frodo stared hard at the stranger as he sat up. "Are you …one of the big folk?" he asked, his eyes widening with sudden recognition. "I know you–you're Cousin Bilbo's friend!"

"That I am, young hobbit," the tall man answered, kneeling to bring himself down to Frodo's level. "Gandalf Greyhame I am called, though you may call me Gandalf. I'm very pleased to meet the cousin of Hobbiton's most infa- erm! - _famous_ hobbit," he said, holding out his hand. Frodo took it, smiling shyly. "So now, you haven't told me what you're doing out here all on your own, scaring all the good people back at Brandy Hall. Why, half of them are scurrying around everywhere west of the Big Wood looking for you!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Frodo. "I didn't mean to... I mean, it wasn't..." The boy's eyes clouded for a minute, his brow drawing down in a frown.

Gandalf eyed the lad closely, then put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Don't you know how you got here?" he asked.

"I think so. Well, not exactly. I was in someone's room, I think, then I was walking. But..."

"Yes?" Gandalf asked, his voice kind.

The child's countenance changed in a heartbeat. There was a flash of pain in his eyes, a dark look of denial. "Nothing," he said. "I don't remember." He was breathing hard; Gandalf could see a vein pulsing in the boy's temple.

"That's all right, boy," Gandalf assured him. "We'll worry about that later. I expect you're hungry, too – it's well after nuncheon, so you've missed three meals already! Let's get you back home so we can call off the search parties, shall we?" The wizard stood up, offering his hand to Frodo who, without hesitation, took it.

As time passed—Gandalf speaking about such things as the weather, harvest, and food—Frodo visibly relaxed and began to swing his arm in the man's grasp. He was soon chattering away while Gandalf engaged him in many interesting topics of conversation.

But as they walked and talked, Gandalf's thoughts were troubled. It wouldn't do for them to come into Brandy Hall and present the boy's dead parents to him again, after what he had learned from Aster. Frodo had seen his parents, both in the river and back at the smial, but his subsequent actions in Aster's presence made the wizard fear for the boy's soundness of mind. It could be devastating to the child to force him to acknowledge what had happened before he was ready. It could break his reason, perhaps beyond mending. Gandalf hoped Bilbo would soon arrive, but since word only went out to Bag End last evening, it may yet be awhile.

Several options crossed the wizard's train of thought, but none seemed feasible, and every step drew them closer to Brandy Hall. All too soon, they crested the last hill before the lane descended into the dell where the ancestral home of the Brandybucks lay. Gandalf paused to look around, his glance lighting on the youngster, who still held his hand. Frodo looked troubled.

"What is it, Frodo?" Gandalf asked, bending low to see the child better.

"I don't want to go in," the boy whispered.

"You don't? Well... " Gandalf dithered. "You've missed first and second breakfast, and elevenses, and nuncheon is already laid on the board." he said.

"I..." The boy's face contorted. "I can't—I won't!" he cried.

"Of course not," Gandalf answered, half in understanding, half in relief.

For he had seen that which brought him sudden hope, the one Frodo needed most. He threw up a hand in greeting. "Look, Frodo!" he exclaimed, pointing down the hill. "Look who's come to see you!"

Frodo looked, and his haunted eyes lit up. There, in the distance, was his cousin, Bilbo Baggins, coming up the lane toward them.

End of Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

Rivers and Willows – Part Three

[Third Tale in the BSF Series

Westel

"I wonder how much longer before we get there," piped a small voice from the back of the pony cart.

'"Yes, I thought as much," came a gruff voice from above, "seeing as how you've wondered that very thing several times now."

Frodo looked up hesitantly, only to meet twinkling eyes that sparkled at him from under a wide-brimmed hat. The child grinned and turned back to surveying the countryside surrounding the travelers.

Bilbo glanced over his shoulder, then back at Gandalf, who had taken advantage of the elder Baggins' driving to pull out his pipe. The wizard made a great show of it, filling and tamping, lighting and drawing, until Bilbo couldn't stand it anymore.

"Confusticate it, Gandalf! If you must smoke in front of me, have the goodness to blow your smoke-rings somewhere else than over my head!" the sturdy hobbit groused, a mischievous look around the eyes belying his indignation.

"Oh dear, I do apologize," Gandalf droned, relishing the savory weed. He tipped his head back and sent a purple ring into the air, followed closely by a blue one that slipped partially through it and back, forming a link.

The ride from Brandy Hall had been astonishingly lovely, Bilbo thought as he handled the reigns, coaxing the pony along at a gentle pace with its larger-than-normal load. Gandalf was in a mellow mood and quite conversational; Frodo had chattered and questioned and commented aptly enough for a boy his age, as if he were on holiday and hadn't a care in the world. It bothered the older hobbit that this young cousin of his showed no sign of missing his parents, dead only since yesterday, nor knowledge that he would be not present at their funeral, which would take place on the morrow.

Bilbo and Gandalf had made their hasty plans there at the top of the hill above Brandy Hall, as Frodo wandered about. Taking the boy in hand, Gandalf procured a fresh pony (Bilbo's having earned a much-needed rest after being hurried all the way to Buckland) and hitched it to a cart. Meanwhile, Bilbo sent out runners to call back the search parties, hastily gathered the child's things, and procured a few edibles from the kitchen. Within the hour, they were on their way to Bag End, Frodo having never entered Brandy Hall, having never come in contact with any other living soul that day but his two traveling companions.

Frodo had been to Bag End before, but that had been several years ago when Primula and Drogo brought him for a visit when he was barely weaned. Bilbo doubted the child remembered much about the place. It was there, Bilbo sincerely hoped, that he and Gandalf would find a way to coax Frodo into accepting the events that would—and had—changed his life and his future. It was not something the older hobbit was particularly looking forward to. In truth, his own grief for his beloved cousins had been carefully tucked away like out-of-season clothing; instinctively he knew this would make it harder for him when he later brought it out again.

But the summer day was lovely: the high-flying clouds were white and fluffy, a soft breeze tempered the bright sunshine, and Frodo was clearly enjoying himself. Baggins' face cleared a little; he smiled a tentative smile, and he accepted the moment for what it was—pleasant.

Gandalf's thoughts were similarly occupied as he enjoyed his pipe and the summery smells around him, the calls of the songbirds and the easy rocking of the slow-moving cart. With his eyes closed, he blew out another smoke-ring that changed into a yellow bird before dissipating in the wind. He was surprised at

the touch of a small hand on his shoulder, and turned to see two large, blue eyes just inches from his own.

"Teach me how to do that?" Frodo begged, admiration in his high voice.

"Frodo Baggins!" Bilbo exclaimed. "And you a lad not yet twelve. I'm astounded at you, young hobbit," he teased. Frodo grinned at Cousin Bilbo's antics, to which he had grown quite accustomed over the years they shared visits at Brandy Hall. Bilbo, his wind up, continued with an eye on Gandalf: "And I'll thank _you_ not to encourage the lad," he fussed. Gandalf pulled his features into a parody of innocence and said nothing, still puffing away. Bilbo darted the wizard a silent rebuke and turned back to young Baggins. "Smoking is for adults only, my young cousin. Why, your mother would have my head if she thought I..."

Bilbo's face tightened into a grimace and he hastily turned away, berating himself silently with whatever words of self-degradation he could conjure.

Gandalf watched the boy from under his bushy brows, searching for any reaction to Bilbo's clumsy words. But aside from a momentary stiffening, there was no indication that Frodo had even heard what was said, much less understood it.

Bother! His pipe was out now; checking for miscreant embers, Gandalf emptied the ashes into the grassy road and put the treasured utensil away. Deprived of his amusement, Frodo was soon facing backwards again, legs crossed, watching the meadows and woods flow by them like slow-moving water.

_That crisis is over_, thought the wizard, _but it will soon be time when we'll have to make him remember, make him see_. For his part, Gandalf would have given half the stars to forego such a task. But for Frodo's sake—and knowing what the wishes of the child's parents would be—it was a task that must be taken up, and soon.

--

The night was dark: no moon, no stars—their absence declaimed the presence of thick clouds that threatened to shed their chilly drops into the moaning wind. Frodo stood in the door of an abandoned building. Rubble lay a-tumble on the floor, and rotten shutters thrashed frailly in the storm, bashing themselves little by little into kindling against the old stone walls. The door was off its hinges, lying

useless by the stoop, and the wind blew past him into the wreck, scattering dust and leaves throughout the empty rooms.

He remained there, not moving, while the minutes dragged by. His eyes grew accustomed to the dark and began to take the remains of what had been his home. At one end of the room was the sitting room fireplace, its chimney collapsed into itself; never more would a fire burn there. All the furniture was gone but for a tattered bit of rug he recognized—he remembered lying upon it and admiring the delicate needlework. Now the fabric remaining was dirty and frayed; a bit of leaf pattern in the center could be discerned, though faded and fouled with bird droppings.

His eyes strayed to the door leading into the back rooms of the house. The boy hesitated, his heart pounding. He felt he must go in, but was suddenly frightened as he took the first step into the moldy interior.

A cold hand was upon his heart as he advanced into the front room. Frodo felt himself shivering even as sweat trickled down his face. Approaching the door to the back hall, he fancied he could hear furtive noises in the walls and flinched as they skittered along beside him. Though he tried to go no further, he was compelled toward the door. Young Baggins dragged his hand along the wall, willing himself to stop, to turn around, to run as fast as he could from this horrid, horrid place. But his body would not obey; his feet seemed to move forward of their own will. "No," he cried, as if his limbs would better listen to his voice than to his thoughts. He found himself within the hall door all the same, staring into deep blackness. He gripped the frame with both hands, fear mounting as his fingers grew numb and the frantic beating of his heart became the only sound in the house. "No!" he repeated, his voice shrill now, his eyes wide in horror. The door to the back room loomed directly opposite him, just a few feet across the hall. It was totally dark.

No, he mustn't—impossible to go into that dead, empty room! If he went in there...

He could feel his grip weakening, the fingers beginning to slip—the pull on his body was stronger than ever, demanding he let go, give in. With one last effort, Frodo flung himself backward, away from the room's ebony opening, and fell crashing to the floor. Frantically, the boy heaved himself upright and ran with all speed...

...and found himself in the very room he had sought to escape. His breath caught in his throat and he flung his arms out, groping for a wall in the total blackness. This dark was complete, unrelenting. It surrounded and closed in on him like heated wool on a damp night; he found it harder and harder to draw breath. Panicking, he bolted forward, hoping to find a wall, a door, anything! But there was no sensation left to him, not even the weight of his own feet upon the dirty floor. Gasping for air, he turned around, desperately trying to find something familiar, something real he could see and touch. But there was nothing.

Nothing, except...

It was faint at first, but he realized it had been going on for some time; his own panic had blocked it from his hearing. But now, as he stood there shivering, trying to draw breath and every nerve raw with fright, he could hear it.

"Bilbo?" he called, his own voice sounding dead and muffled.

But it wasn't Bilbo. He listened again, and suddenly caught his breath.

Her voice. _Was_ it her voice? "Mum?" he whispered.

The voice grew stronger; it was beautiful, melodic, but awash with melancholy, echoing as if from far away. It drew him, tantalized and entranced him; Frodo moved, without thinking, toward it. "Mother?" he called again, his voice trembling in fright and anticipation. Clearer now, the voice sounded as if it were in the next room, and its pull became more demanding, even painful in its urgency. But something was not right. . . Suddenly he was afraid again, and he halted.

Frodo realized too late that the voice was now moving toward him. He was rooted to the floor as the melody came closer. It filled the room where he stood, its subtle notes twining about his limbs, moving up his body like spiders, paralyzing him. The child moaned with fear but there was little enough air to fill his lungs, let alone make much sound. His legs failing him, he collapsed to the floor, and even as he still tried to crawl away he felt the song all around him—wounding him with its message of desolation. Just as he felt he would finally succumb, Frodo felt a lurch, then a bump. There was light suddenly, and he grabbed the first thing he found at hand, bracing himself...

...for there was someone—or something—at the bedroom door.

--

Bilbo ran into Gandalf's room without knocking, but the wizard was already up and pulling on his cloak. "Frodo?" he asked, following Bilbo out of the room. The hobbit scurried down the hall to the next room; Gandalf was on his heels as they entered.

Gandalf Greyhame, Mithrandir of old, was wise in years and experience, and had looked upon such things that would blanch the very blood of a simple hobbit. Wars, deceits, atrocities - all were known to him. His great heart, though not hardened, had constructed shields against the deepest pain, and he had drawn upon these shields at need throughout his long life. But today, as his eyes fell upon the 11-year-old, the shields shredded as though they were made of gossamer.

Across the room, backed into a corner, stood Frodo Baggins. His features were etched with desperate ferocity, his hair hung lank with sweat. His body shook violently, yet he firmly grasped a heavy candle-stick with both hands, and there was battle in his eyes.

"I thought I heard Frodo call my name," Bilbo said quietly. "I found him on the floor, all curled up and muttering like he was in a fever. I think he fell out of bed—he must have been dreaming, the bedclothes are in a state," he added, pointing at the twisted covers. "But when I touched him, he flew up at me, going on about the dark and frightening me nearly out of my wits!"

"He doesn't seem to recognize us," Gandalf observed, taking care not to make any sudden moves. The two of them were more than capable of subduing the child, but he feared Frodo may bring injury to himself if they handled this indiscreetly.

"No, he doesn't," answered Bilbo, his voice belying the concern he felt for his cousin. "Is he ill, do you think?"

"Not in the way you mean," Gandalf answered. "He fights his own memories, I reckon."

"What can we do?" Bilbo asked, his voice rising in alarm.

"Don't!" Frodo yelled, brandishing the candle-stick and darting forward a few paces. "Leave me alone!" he growled, the sound strange in his childish treble.

"We're not going to hurt you, Frodo," Gandalf said, gently. He raised his hand in an open gesture, but neither the gesture nor his tone had any effect on the boy.

"You stay BACK!" Frodo threatened hotly, but his body was failing him as he spoke. His breathing was ragged and he had paled as they watched him, the candle-stick becoming heavier and heavier in his weakening grip. They saw him falter, take a step back, try to rally. It broke their hearts to see him this way, but they dared not approach the lad just yet. Slowly, however, the fear-strength ebbed from the boy; he dropped the candle-stick and looked up at his older cousin, awareness spilling into his eyes. "Bilbo?" he breathed.

"Yes, boy, it's your old cousin. You've been having a nasty dream, I'm afraid," Bilbo soothed. "But it's all right now. Gandalf and I are here and nothing's going to hurt you."

Moments ticked by as Frodo slowly came to himself. He took in his surroundings: the comfortable, well-

furnished room, the leaded-glass window by the bed, the two friends who kept him company.

Gandalf and Bilbo watched Frodo's hobbit-sense return, and when the boy's eyes met the wizard's, their blue depths somehow reminded him of elves. "What is it, Frodo?" Gandalf asked, moving forward slowly and taking one of the child's hands in his own as he knelt next to him.

Frodo's features were alive with confusion and frenzied thought. Then his brows pulled lower in a puzzled frown. "Gandalf," he began, hesitating. The wizard smiled his encouragement.

"Gandalf," Frodo began again, "were you..." He pulled his hand from Gandalf's grasp. "Were you singing?" he asked.


	4. Chapter 4

Rivers and Willows – Part Four

[Third Tale in the BSF Series

Westel

It was quiet.

Frodo felt at peace; his body floated in warmth and his mind was free. There was a scent in the air that reminded him of oak leaves and laurel, and he could hear a soft thrumming somewhere nearby.

Slowly, he wakened and looked around the room, recognizing it as the one he had slept in last night. He sat up and spotted the cheerful fire in the hearth, where a small kettle simmered. The early sun slanted on plants and shrubbery outside his deep-set window, and birds made their morning song in flight.

Frodo took a deep breath. He ought to be happy this morning, childishly glad of the beautiful, clear day and the promise of new adventures among new surroundings. Why then did he feel so sad? He slipped out of bed, the floor cool and pleasant under his feet, and washed his face and hands using the pitcher and bowl on a low stand under the window.

The dawn was radiant, and the colours of full summer grew as the sun rose higher behind Bag End. Frodo opened the window and smelled green grass, hay in the meadow, and tea roses. He leaned on the stone sill, glancing up at the robin's-egg sky, and sighed.

The child turned from the window and began to dress himself. "You're a silly hobbit, Frodo Baggins. Here you are on holiday with Bilbo and Mister Gandalf and you've the cheek to feel unhappy!" he muttered as he pulled up his braces. His glance lit on a small mirror across the room; in it he saw a rumple-haired lad, a bit small for his age but big enough, he'd warrant. The eyes, blue and large, sat comfortably under eyebrows that matched his dark hair. The nose was straight and ordinary enough, and the mouth was of no particular note except that it was currently pulled into a great frown.

"You're a silly hobbit," he repeated, wagging his finger at the mirror image and getting his own finger- scolding in return. He grinned then, tickled by his self-recrimination, and stood for some seconds shaking his finger ever more demonstrably at himself, throwing in a few good faces, as well. This was better—he felt his strange mood fading already. Caught up in his own antics, Frodo planted his feet squarely and placed both hands on his hips. "Frodo Baggins!" he began.

But he couldn't go on. He stood transfixed, staring at the image which, of a sudden, was no longer Frodo Baggins but someone else standing there, reprimanding him for some childish misdeed...

_Who...?_

"Wake up, my lad, wake up! The day's begun and we've lots' to do—Oh! You're up already—an early bird, I see!" chattered Bilbo as he came into the room, bearing a tea tray.

The start Cousin Bilbo had given young Baggins completely erased the strange mirror image from his thoughts. "Morning, Cousin Bilbo," Frodo said, dragging his eyes from the mirror. "Have you had breakfast already?" he asked, eying the tea things.

"Heavens, no, Frodo! Old bachelors such as myself don't bother getting up before sunrise—what indeed would be the point? Actually, I thought you might be a little under the weather after last night." Bilbo sat the tray on a side table and took the kettle off the hob.

"Oh no..." Frodo smiled uneasily. "I'm fine."

"Hm," Bilbo grunted, but kept his thoughts to himself as he poured hot water into the teapot. "Well, then, why don't you join me and Gandalf in having breakfast out on the terrace? It's already warm and it will feel good out and away from the kitchen fire."

Frodo grinned in delight and held the door for his cousin, then followed him down the hall, savoring the scent of scones and strawberries as they went.

--

Late summer days, though lazy and long, pass too quickly for children—especially hobbit children. Frodo's imagination found ample stimuli in his elder cousin's bucolic home and surroundings. Included on a long list of things to do were trees to climb, birds' nests to investigate, and little paths to follow. Rainy days presented no difficulty, either, Bilbo's library providing many and diverse amusements for the boy. Frodo's natural love of reading—thanks to his upbringing—had advanced his ability far beyond his years. His reasoning was still that of an eleven year old, however, and the two elder occupants of Bag End were vastly amused by young Baggins' interpretation of some of the philosophical texts. He had a tendency to take everything literally, as most children do.

But Frodo's favorite activity was after supper, when the nights grew cool and doors were shut. He loved to sprawl on the thick carpet before the fire at Bilbo's and Gandalf's feet while they told stories of past adventures. That was when the hours flew fastest, and Frodo's eyes, though they burned with fatigue, were wide with wonder and amazement at the tales he heard. It was during those times that Bilbo was struck with just how young his temporary charge was.

"Mr. Gandalf, you should write your stories down! They're wonderful!" Frodo exulted. "And you, too, Cousin! They're—they're fantastical!" The boy was practically prancing with excitement as the two grownups led him down the hall toward his bedroom.

"If you mean fantastic, Frodo, I'd have to agree with you, especially after hearing some of the tales Bilbo has told me over the years," Gandalf said, a wry expression on his face.

"Oh, now, Gandalf, you're never going to let me hear the end of that, are you?" Bilbo fussed, opening the bedroom door and ushering his guests in.

"End of what?" Frodo piped, struggling with the buttons on his shirt.

"Why, Bilbo's biggest story of all," Gandalf replied, his expression enigmatic.

"What was that, Cousin? Please tell me!"

Gandalf's winged eyebrows drew down over deep-set eyes. There was a note of trepidation in Frodo's last request, or he was no wizard. The boy had been plagued with nightmares, off and on, since that first night in Bag End. But with a child's resilience, Frodo felt little effect other than what a short nap would cure. The daylight hours were carefree and full of delight for the lad, but nights—in particular, bedtimes—were a different matter.

"I will in good time, young hobbit," Bilbo answered, helping Frodo on with his nightshirt. "But it's late now; you should have been asleep hours ago."

"Will you leave the lamp on?" the boy asked, his blue eyes anxious.

"No need," said the wizard. "Look, there's a full moon tonight—the last one before the new month—and a new season."

"So it is," Bilbo agreed, glancing out the window. "Into bed with you!" he said, and helped settle Frodo under the crisp sheets. He was surprised when the boy's hands grasped his own, when the blue eyes sought his face. "It's all right," he murmured. "I'll stay with him a while, Gandalf," he said, turning toward his old friend. "Just 'til he falls asleep."

Gandalf nodded and left the room, shutting the door behind him. Bilbo leaned over and blew out the lamp, and soon the hobbits' eyes were accustomed to the blue-white brilliance flooding through the window.

"Bilbo?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

"I—I have funny thoughts sometimes... at night, I mean. Funny…"

Bilbo's breath hitched. This was the first time Frodo had even hinted of talking about his nightmares. "Go on, dear," he said.

"Funny thoughts...about things." Frodo's brow was puckered; his grip on Bilbo's hands tightened.

"Can you tell me, lad?" Baggins whispered, afraid to push the boy too far. "I won't let anything hurt you."

"I'm in a house, most times," Frodo began. "It's all—torn up, all broken."

"Is anybody there with you?" Bilbo prompted.

"No...yes. I—I don't know!" Bilbo could feel trembling in the child's fingers, but still Frodo held on.

"It's all right. Don't go any faster than you wish. You don't have to do anything until you want to."

"It's dark," Frodo mumbled. Bilbo could tell in the bright moonlight that his young cousin was no longer looking at him. "It's so..." The boy's hands grew colder, the trembling more pronounced.

"Frodo? Come back, lad. Come back to Bilbo. You're with me, here in your bedroom. You're all tucked in and ready for a nice, long sleep. Come back, now."

Frodo's eyes gradually lost their faraway look and he finally smiled in recognition. "Did I fall asleep?" he asked, letting go of Bilbo's hands. The elder hobbit felt a chill go up his spine but struggled not to let it show.

"Almost. Now you just close those weary eyes and let sleep take you. I'll stay until I know you're off visiting with the elves and dwarves, all right?"

"And wizards," Frodo murmured, sleep drawing over him like a comfortable blanket.

"And wizards," Bilbo answered. He waited another quarter of an hour before assuring himself the lad was indeed in a deep, restful sleep. He stood to go, but on impulse leaned over the child. He pushed a stray curl from the sleeping youngster's face and kissed him on the forehead. Then, turning, he went to the door and opened it, stepping through into the hall. He stole one last glance at his young cousin and found himself smiling. "Especially wizards," he said, and shut the door.

--

_Put down your daily play, _

_Still now your hands. _

_Dream of adventures, love …_

Bilbo stopped, wondering where that old song had come from. He glanced over at Gandalf, who sat looking half-asleep before the dying fire.

But Gandalf was far from asleep. "That's quite lovely, Bilbo. What is it?"

"Just a childhood lullaby," Bilbo said, shaking spent ashes from his pipe onto the hearth. "I suppose rocking here in the warmth of the fire brought back old memories." Bilbo's smile was dry. "I was a spoiled, only child, Gandalf, did I ever tell you?"

The wizard shook his head.

"Well, I was," Bilbo continued, unconsciously rocking again. "My mother would have ruined me utterly had it not been for my father and the Gamgees—but that's another story," he said, grinning at the recollection. "Anyway, my mother used to sing this song to me at bedtime. Having Frodo here must have sparked

the memory—Prim sang it to her baby boy when they visited here a few years ago."

"Why did they not come here more often?"

"Easier for me to go to Brandy Hall when the Bagginses visited, especially when Frodo was still in nappies," Bilbo responded. "I got to see old friends and relatives who had long since given up traveling—or never started. We always made a time of it, every year. Parties, picnics, walks in the forest."

"The Forest?" Gandalf asked, his eyebrows raised.

"Not by my choice, by any means. But we had plenty of company; the Brandybucks weren't afraid of the woods, though I found them dark and oppressive. I noticed, though, that the hedge gate was always barred and locked before nightfall. But those were good times—with a bit of adventure thrown in.

Primula especially loved going on walks to new places. I wish..."

Bilbo stopped, his eyes stinging suddenly, his heart in his throat.

Gandalf reached across the space between them and laid a comforting hand on the hobbit's arm. Then the wizard's worried frown dissolved into a sad, knowing smile, and he patted his old friend in empathy. "You haven't been able to grieve, have you?"

Bilbo looked up from his interlaced fingers, his eyes swimming with unshed tears. "No, I'm afraid not. I do miss them so, Gandalf."

"I know you do, old friend. You're worried about their boy, too. He stands to face a few rough years there at Brandy Hall—likely he'll be bringing himself up as best he can."

"I know. I am concerned about him, Gandalf, don't think me hard-hearted. But I'm an old bachelor, set in my ways and jealous of my comforts and privacy. I'd be a bad influence on the lad. And my reputation, such as it is, wouldn't help him either, especially when he begins to grow up. I want to have him visit, as often and as long as he likes, but ..."

Gandalf smiled mysteriously and gave Bilbo's arm a squeeze before leaning back in his chair. He stretched luxuriously. "No need placing the burden of that decision upon yourself right now, my good hobbit. Personally, I fancy a soft bed and a light blanket right at the moment."

Bilbo's lips quirked, his eyes twinkling. "Don't let me keep you up," he said, yawning. "Actually, these old bones could use a rest as well."

"Old bones, my hat!" chuckled the wizard. "You haven't aged a day since we left Dale."

Bilbo waved him off and the two went to bed. The house grew quiet and only the clock could be heard ticking off time in the parlor. But if Gandalf had been less sleepy, and Bilbo less sorrowful, one of them just may have seen that Frodo's door was ajar when they passed it, and that it slowly closed only after they retired.


	5. Chapter 5

Rivers and Willows – Part Five

[Third Tale in the BSF Series

Westel

The morning blew chilly with westerly gusts, rain falling in fits and starts, buffeting trees and fields as if trying to hasten the coming of fall.

Gandalf lay awake, wanting to relish the last few minutes in his comfortable bed, knowing he must be away tomorrow to run an errand far to the southeast—a long journey indeed. The weeks at Bag End had been delightful, restful, and he enjoyed many a long talk with his friend with whom he shared things he could never share with others. In truth, that was why he loved the Shire and all its folk so much. The worst of circumstances, whether fire, storm, or plague, could attack their constitutions, but they took everything as part of life, as a matter of fact, and possessed a general, sound wisdom that far surpassed stoicism. They were a comfortable people, he thought.

But this particular stay was drawing to an end, and was indeed marred in one respect: Frodo had not yet come to terms with the death of his parents. There had been an evening, nearly a fortnight ago, when Bilbo left his young cousin sleeping soundly and returned to the fireside, new hope lighting his features. Bilbo told the wizard of his and Frodo's conversation concerning the dreams, expressing his optimism that soon the boy would open up entirely. But the next morning had brought them disappointment.

Frodo woke up coughing and fretful. Though the child had caught a cold, it was not serious, and the lad was soon up and about—but with the illness had come a reticence they'd not seen before and which had not fully left him, even after Frodo had fully recovered. There had been no more talk of dreams, but Gandalf had heard the boy murmuring in his sleep more than once, and over those last few days Frodo had grown pale, his features troubled and drawn.

Sighing, Gandalf threw back the covers and rose, thankful for the taller ceiling in this particular room, an arrangement Bilbo had made just for his comfort. Soon he was dressed and ventured out into the hall, taking care to be quiet since he'd heard no other sounds of stirring in the house.

Across from him was Bilbo's room, and the door was still shut. Gandalf thought he could discern soft snoring coming from its occupant, and smiled wryly to himself. He had kept Bilbo up long last night, but this time not with tales. They had discussed the younger Baggins and what they might do to help the lad. Bilbo was anxious that something be done while the wizard was still there, in case anything should go wrong. In all honesty, Gandalf hadn't a clue what he could do for the boy if events did go awry, but he could understand Bilbo's concern.

In any event, they had laid their plans, and today would be the day. No matter what, Frodo would be confronted with the death of his parents. He would have to acknowledge they were gone—and to accept he would never see them again.

Gandalf shook his head, sorry for what must come. Turning, he walked a few steps to Frodo's door and knocked gently. "Frodo?" he called, opening the door and looking in. The room was empty.

"Frodo?" Gandalf called again, pushing the door wide and walking in. Frodo had been in the bed some time during the night, but now the bedclothes were thrown back and his nightshirt was folded over a chair. "Where is that boy?" grumbled the wizard, and headed for Bilbo's room again.

--

Frodo sat on a low bench under an apple tree in Bilbo's garden, oblivious to the storm that surged around him. Wakened by another nightmare, he had dressed in the dark and come out where he could feel the wind and rain in a moonless sky. But this brought the child no peace.

The dreams had been growing in intensity, dragging him deeper into the rooms of a forsaken, empty home. Ever since the evening he heard Bilbo singing that lullaby, the haunting melody had become part of the nightmare. He was drawn to the soft refrain but repelled at the same time, and it frightened him—frightened him so much he woke up shaking.

But last night the dream was different. There was a voice in the dark, as before, but this time Frodo could see—just faintly—a figure. He stood there, still rooted to the floor as in all his previous dreams, and watched as another figure took shape beside the first. Nebulous they were, indistinct, but there was a strange smell about them—a scent of water-logged weeds and mud…

The boy could only stare in horror at the wavering figures. The smell was growing stronger, and the sound of flowing water rushed around him. Frodo started—one figure had moved, and something seemed to be dripping from its tenuous fingers. Frodo shook his head in denial, watching in alarm as both apparitions began to move toward him...

…It was then he awakened, feeling faint and sick, and terrified of falling asleep again. His head whirling, he sought relief in the garden and collapsed on the bench, feeling too weak to move. He drew his knees up under his chin, wrapping his arms around them, and rocked himself. There he remained, and

now here he sat in the beginning of a new day, knowing that Bilbo would come looking for him soon.

Dear Bilbo! How he admired his older cousin, and how he loved living here at Bag End. If he could just stay here, never return to Buckland...

But he would have to leave, and soon. This was a visit, after all. He'd heard Bilbo talking to Gandalf about the wizard's approaching departure; instinctively, the boy knew his time was short as well. He would have to go back...

_I don't want to go to Buckland_, he thought desperately. "They can't make me!" he said, defiantly.

Frodo frantically looked around him, wondering what to do. But it was too late.

Bilbo and Gandalf were coming down the garden path, straight toward him. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Frodo thought of darting away, escaping to some place where no one could find him ever, ever again. He stood up …

But then Gandalf, approaching him first and laying a kindly hand on his shoulder, said, "If you run now, Frodo, you will be running for the rest of your life."

--

"I want to tell you a story, Frodo, about two very dear friends of mine," Bilbo began. The threesome sat in front of a roaring fire, heedless of the worsening storm. Steaming mugs of coffee took the place of breakfast—no one was in the least hungry, though it was well past time for breakfast.

Gandalf watched Frodo carefully as Bilbo began. The eleven year old was dumbstruck when they ushered him back into the house, and remained mute while they dried off, answering in monosyllables while Bilbo and Gandalf brewed the coffee and made up the fire. Now he sat like a rabbit in a trap, coffee (much-diluted with milk) cooling untouched by his elbow, hands clenched white-knuckled in his lap.

"Are you comfortable, my boy?" he asked the young hobbit, who started nervously, then cast his worried eyes upon the wizard.

"Yes."

"I won't bore you with all the details of who is related to whom, and whether we're first or second cousins twice or thrice removed," Bilbo continued. "It is sufficient to say that the young lass was a Took and her young lad a Baggins, though he was related more closely to the Brandybucks if one looked closely enough. Oh! Sorry, my pipe's gone out! Half a moment."

Bilbo fussed with lighting his pipe, watching for signs of recognition or flight on his young cousin's face. But Frodo sat perfectly still, hardly breathing, his hands still clenched tight. The boy's face betrayed his stillness, however. The eyes were large and full and the lips were pressed together. Bilbo's tender heart ached for the boy, but there was nothing for it but to continue.

"Now, where was I? Prim and Dro were my cousins, Frodo, just as you are my cousin. Those are their portraits over the mantelpiece. But I expect I've told you that already, haven't I?"

Frodo shook his head dazedly, glancing quickly at the portraits and back again at Bilbo. "N—no, I don't…" His jaw hardened. "No, Sir." Frodo took his hands out of his lap and gripped the arms of his chair, looking as if he would like to bolt.

"No? Well, I expect you know best," Bilbo answered, trying with difficulty to keep his voice matter-of-fact, his tone light—no mean feat considering how his heart was breaking. Talking about Frodo's parents was bringing up old memories in waves and his imprisoned grief threw itself against Baggins' resolve like a battering-ram.

"To continue, once their eyes fell on each other, they never looked anywhere else. By the time three moons had ridden their courses, they were married. Why they loved me, I'll never know, fusty old bachelor that I am, but they did. They visited me often, and I them, whenever they sojourned at Brandy Hall. We had such jolly times, wonderful times! I…" Bilbo halted, unable to go on. His voice betrayed him and he was reduced to wiping his eyes and clearing his throat several times.

"I knew them, too," Gandalf interjected, but Frodo's eyes remained on his older cousin, who was still having difficulty controlling his grief. "Naturally not as well as Bilbo, but well enough to know what a delightful couple they were. Full of good hobbit-sense, of course, but a tad more like your cousin Bilbo than their other cousins. They had more of a sense of adventure than most—weren't afraid of the water, as I recall. I think Prim could swim a little, couldn't she, Bilbo?"

"Yes," Bilbo rasped. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, she could swim, and pretty well, too. I remember she would strip down to her shift—scandalized half the Shire—little did she care. She was too innocent to care. But she was fully dressed when they…when they found her—her clothes must have dragged her down, she had to have struggled—oh, Prim!" Bilbo, overwhelmed at last, leaned over and bent his head to the armrest of his chair, his body racked with silent sobs.

Gandalf started to go to comfort his friend when he saw Frodo slowly stand. He eased himself back into his chair and watched to see what the boy would do. Tentatively, Frodo approached his cousin and stood at Bilbo's side. He reached out a hand and touched the elder Baggins' arm. When Bilbo didn't respond,

Frodo commenced patting him. Finally Bilbo raised his head, his eyes swollen with tears, and tried to compose himself.

"I'm sorry, dear boy," he apologized. "I don't know what came over me …"

"I knew them," Frodo whispered.

"Yes, Frodo?" Bilbo answered, glancing at Gandalf, who's eyebrows had gone up.

"They were—my mum and dad."

"Yes."

Frodo stiffened, his chin coming up, and anger charged his features.

"I won't do it. You can't make me."

"Frodo, my dear, let me finish …"

"NO! Stop talking about them! Like—like they are…as if they were…"

With a cry, Frodo pushed past Gandalf and fled to the hall. He ran into his room and slammed the bedroom door behind him. Bilbo sat in shock, staring at Gandalf.

"What happened? We were almost there!"

"He's fighting it, Bilbo. When he finally accepts it, he will have lost his entire world, don't you see? Would you want to have to face that at such a tender age?"

"What shall we do?"

"I'll check on him. I expect he's exhausted and may fall asleep. We must trust that all will come out right in the end," Gandalf said, moving toward the hall.

"But you're leaving tomorrow," Bilbo objected, his emotions still high.

"I can postpone my departure a day or two if need be. The day is young yet. We shall see."

Gandalf strode to Frodo's door to check on him. Bilbo watched with a heavy heart as the wizard listened for sounds within. Apparently hearing none, Gandalf soon joined him again.

"Let's get some breakfast, Bilbo. Frankly, I'm surprised at you for tending to your guest so negligently."

Bilbo, brought to his senses, preceded Gandalf into the kitchen and stirred up the fire.

--

Frodo flung himself onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow. He felt as though he could cry, but the tears wouldn't come. Frustrated and angry, he beat his hand into the pillow again and again, until his raging fury drove his little fist into the sturdy oak of the headboard, splitting a knuckle and causing blood to flow.

This sobered him. Young Baggins found a handkerchief in his drawer and bandaged his hand. Then he curled up on the bed again, wrapping his arms around a pillow, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Much later, the dream began again. Immediately—without prelude—he was in the black room. With no time to prepare, he saw the two figures, ghostly, rise just inches from him. The smell of river water, dead leaves, and water lilies was everywhere. The song was around him, washing over him like the river, the voice soft and sweet, the words all too familiar …

_Shut now those weary eyes, _

_Put thoughts to rest. _

_Lay in my arms, my child; _

_Dream a dream blest._

"Mum? Dad?"

But the figures didn't answer. They began to fade, and with them went the song, and the smell of the Brandywine, and Frodo found himself at last standing utterly alone.

--

Hours had gone by while Frodo slept and the wizard and hobbit waited. Though not much food was consumed, a good deal of tea and coffee was, and Bilbo was thinking about putting on yet another kettle, wondering what he would fix for supper.

For the day had drawn to a close without incident, despite its earlier promise, and twilight was casting shadows in the garden. Bilbo sighed, but said nothing of his anxiety to his old friend. Indeed, there was no need to, as Gandalf had fumed and fussed with his own troubles all day.

When the screaming began Bilbo nearly dropped the kettle and Gandalf knocked over a chair as he stood. Bilbo reached the bedroom first and threw the door open, revealing Frodo sitting up in bed, one arm stretched out in front of him, his eyes wide in fear.

"No, NO!" he called, sobbing. "Somebody help—they're drowning! Help me…"

Bilbo and Gandalf ran to the boy's bedside; Bilbo threw himself down beside Frodo and enveloped him in his arms while Gandalf stood to the side, his eyes narrowed, lips moving silently.

"Mother!" Frodo cried. "Mum, don't leave me here! Da' … Dad, come back! Come back _now_, Da'!!" Frodo's voice rose in anger and despair, and he smashed his injured hand against his thigh, despite Bilbo's efforts to stop him.

"Shush, boy," soothed Bilbo, not knowing what else to say. "Shush now. I'm sorry, lad, so very, very sorry."

Frodo's arms dropped and he sat limply in his cousin's arms. His breaths were ragged and his body shook violently. "Please …" he groaned.

Gandalf drew a deep breath and lay a gnarled hand on the boy's curls. "It's over now, Frodo," he said.

Frodo remained motionless. "Dad…?"

"He's gone, child. He's in a better place." Gandalf caressed the top of Frodo's head.

Frodo's breathing slowed a little, and his eyes began to clear. He looked up into the streaming eyes of his older cousin.

"Mum?"

"Gone, too, I fear. We all miss them very much," Bilbo croaked, on the verge of sobbing himself.

Frodo looked past Bilbo at Gandalf, who now stood gazing down at him with a smile as warm as past summer days.

"Will I—will I ever see them again?" The blue eyes glittered with hope born of innocence.

"Most assuredly, Frodo," answered the wizard. "You will indeed."

"That's good," the child exclaimed breathlessly, then his features crumpled—and he threw himself into Bilbo's arms, weeping sorely and long, his heart unburdened at last.

--

"Well, Bilbo, I must finally say goodbye."

"I wish you were staying longer, old friend. I shall miss you."

The two friends shook hands, then Gandalf knelt and pulled Bilbo into an embrace. "And I you, my dear hobbit."

"You'll be coming back soon—won't you?" piped a higher voice from beside the elder Baggins.

Gandalf smiled at Frodo, who stood holding the wizard's hat. "Would you like me to?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," Frodo answered, smiling tentatively as he handed the large hat to Gandalf.

Gandalf looked the boy over carefully. The lad was still pale from his ordeal the day before, and his face bore signs of grief, but the eyes were clear and unguarded. Gandalf put on his hat and took Frodo's hand in his own. "You'll be all right now, young Baggins. You have family and friends who love you in Brandy Hall—you have Bilbo to visit, too. And I will come and see you whenever I can."

"Frodo will stay on with me for a bit yet," Bilbo said, placing an arm around his young cousin's shoulders. "And then I'll take him on a roundabout trip back to Brandy Hall. Rory Brandybuck is the boy's guardian and will see to his education and bringing up." Bilbo noticed Gandalf's fleeting frown and continued: "It's not the best of circumstances, I know, but it's not the worst, either. We'll keep in close contact, too. Won't we, Frodo?"

"Yes, Sir," Frodo agreed, though looking uncertain. The boy was no longer afraid to go back to Brandy Hall, but he secretly knew he would never feel the same there without his parents.

Gandalf, still holding the boy's hand, pulled him closer and looked him square in the eye. "You have learned a great lesson in your young life, Frodo," he said. "Just when we think we have lost everything—is when we truly find it."

Frodo looked puzzled. The wizard suddenly laughed, and the boy felt as if a ray of sunshine had enveloped him.

"Don't worry, Frodo. You've plenty of time to learn to understand what I've said. Your own heart will show you the way." And with that, Gandalf embraced the boy. Releasing him at last, he stood and adjusted the pack on his back.

"You're not walking all that way, are you, Gandalf?" Frodo asked, a certain lilt returning to his voice.

Gandalf chuckled. "No, indeed. I'll be taking some shortcuts, as well. Ask your Cousin Bilbo about those, he knows lots of shortcuts."

Gandalf gave Bilbo a wink. Then, with a nod of farewell, he went through the gate and started down the path. The hobbits watched him until he turned a corner and was lost to them.

"Bilbo?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

"I'm hungry."

"Already? Why, it's only an hour since we ate."

Frodo's face fell, and Bilbo mussed his hair.

"But who cares? I'm hungry, too. I believe the Gaffer's brought us some fresh eggs this morning—let's go see, shall we? And look, the clouds are clearing! I think we'll just take a walk around Hobbiton after we eat. Would you like that?"

Frodo smiled at his elder cousin. "Aye, that I would."

"It's 'yes, I would', Frodo," Bilbo corrected, taking the boy's hand in his own. And the two hobbits walked around the side of the smial and through the kitchen door.

The End


End file.
